Handbook for Homicide

by Lorna Barrett

  “That’s terrible!” Tricia cried.

  “Where are the others?” Curtis asked.

  “They took off on foot, but I stayed to tell you. I knew you’d be back.” The old man sized up Curtis’s new clothes. “You sure spiffed up. Did you get the job?”

  “Yeah,” Curtis said, his voice husky. “I got it. I start tomorrow.”

  “Wow. Good going.”

  “What can we do to help you, sir?” Angelica asked.

  The old man wiped the back of a hand under his nose and sniffed. “Nothin’.”

  “No,” Tricia said emphatically, looking at Angelica. “Let me call Grace. The Everett Foundation has made sizable contributions to the big homeless shelter in Nashua. I’m sure she could pull some strings to get you in today.”

  “I don’t like shelters,” the old man declared. “They gots lots a rules.”

  “Bobby, go,” Curtis said. “Just until you get settled and can figure out your next move.”

  The old man surveyed the empty field. “I guess you’re right. I really got no choice.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It took the rest of the afternoon to deliver Bobby to the homeless shelter and make sure he had a cot for at least the night. Tricia checked in with Pixie, letting her know the situation, and Grace kept in touch, promising she’d follow up the next day to see if the Everett Foundation could be of any further assistance to Bobby. He shook hands with all three of them and then they piled into Tricia’s car and headed back to Stoneham.

  “Is it even legal for people to just show up and bulldoze a homeless site?” Angelica asked, apparently as upset as Tricia over the entire ordeal.

  “Technically, we were trespassing,” Curtis said. “We were lucky they didn’t come along and break up our camp months before now.”

  “It does seem suspicious that it happened right after Chief Baker showed up,” Tricia observed. Much as she wanted to know why King had lied about the earring, trashing the only place the homeless men had as a sanctuary seemed incredibly cruel. Had Baker set things in motion, or was it just a coincidence that the men in the pickup had arrived immediately after he’d left the encampment? Tricia intended to find out.

  It was almost happy hour by the time Tricia dropped Curtis off in front of bungalow number two behind the Brookview Inn. Unlike Bobby, Curtis had two changes of clothing in addition to his new attire, although Tricia wasn’t sure when the former had last been washed. The Brookview’s housekeeping team could take care of that, and she was comforted to know he could get three square meals a day at the inn’s restaurant as well.

  Tricia rolled down her window as Curtis exited the car with his shopping bag of stuff in hand. “I don’t know how to thank you, Tricia. I don’t know what I would have done with nowhere to go—again.”

  “Make the most of this opportunity. Succeed. That would be the only reward I need.”

  “I’ll make you proud. I promise.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” Tricia said.

  “It was nice to have met you, Mr. Curtis. I look forward to working together,” Angelica called.

  “Call me Hank, ma’am.”

  “Only if you call me Angelica.”

  “Will do,” he said, and straightened, giving both women a salute. They waved good-bye and Tricia closed her window before she drove out the inn’s back entrance.

  “What a day,” Angelica muttered, sinking back in her seat, and then winced.

  “Is your foot bothering you?”

  “Yes, I should have had it raised during lunch. The swelling will probably be worse for a couple of days.”

  “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t just abandon poor Bobby.”

  “Oh, I’m with you a hundred percent. I’m just glad Grace could help the man out. And I wonder what happened to the other guys who were living in that field.”

  Tricia shrugged. “We’ll probably never know, although I have a feeling Hank will try to track them down. A good commander always looks after his men.”

  Angelica nodded and changed the subject. “I never had a chance to coordinate with Tommy about making our dinner, and I’m afraid my cupboards are pretty bare.”

  “Come to my place and I’ll fix us something, even if it’s only eggs and toast.”

  “That sounds fine to me, but Sarge will need to go out. If June hasn’t already done it—”

  “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let the little guy suffer.”

  “I feel bad that I’ve neglected him all day.”

  “Mr. Everett was aware of our change of plans; I’m sure he saw to it Sarge was well looked after.”

  “I’m sorry my silly foot has taken him away from his work at your store so often these past couple of weeks.”

  “Nonsense. He’s loved every minute of feeling useful. And, anyway, things have been pretty slow at the shop. He would probably have only worn out his lamb’s-wool duster.”

  Angelica laughed. “You’re probably right.”

  It was five fifty-five when Tricia pulled up in front of Haven’t Got a Clue. Pixie emerged and greeted them both, grabbing Angelica’s crutches from the back of the car and helping her inside while Tricia parked the car in the municipal lot. Pixie was putting on her coat to leave when she returned.

  “I’m sorry I was gone all day,” Tricia said, “but we had to help that poor homeless man.”

  “Of course you did. Mr. Everett left about twenty minutes ago to take Sarge for a walk, so he’ll be fine. You and Angelica can have your usual happy hour gabfest.” She sighed. “Fred and me usually have a cocktail before we flip a coin to see who’s going to burn dinner.”

  “Oh, come on, you’re not that bad a cook.”

  “You haven’t tasted my baked chicken.” Pixie grabbed her purse and headed out the door. “See you tomorrow!”

  Tricia locked up and set the security system and thought about the timing of the two attempted break-ins, which had occurred on successive Saturday evenings. Why would someone intent on getting into her store wait a week before trying it a second time?

  She was still thinking of that when she stepped into her apartment and found Angelica ensconced on the chaise end of her sectional, feet up, her boot off, and looking like she’d been there for hours.

  Tricia hung up her jacket and plopped into the chair by the coffee table, sinking in and kicking off her shoes. “This has been a very long day. I don’t want to move from this spot.”

  “Oh,” Angelica said in what could only be described as disappointment.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve still got the energy to go somewhere else tonight.”

  “Well, sort of,” she admitted. “Despite my swollen foot, I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed today. Not that I liked witnessing that poor homeless man’s troubles, but, thanks to Grace, we did get to help him out. And I’ve had such a terrible case of cabin fever, I feel like I’m going crazy,” Angelica cried.

  “But you were out nearly the whole day,” Tricia protested.

  “As I just pointed out, not all of it was fun.”

  Tricia frowned. “What do you want to do? Go to a movie?”

  “Definitely not! I’ve watched too many movies during the past few weeks.”

  “How about I take you to a bookstore?” Tricia suggested with a smile.

  “I’d only have to walk down the stairs for that,” Angelica griped.

  “Do you want to go out to dinner?”

  “No. I’m actually getting sick of restaurant food. Eggs and toast will be fine. But I want to be where people are hanging out—where there’s noise and music.”

  “The Dog-Eared Page?” Tricia asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. Do you want me to go next door to get the transport chair?”

  “Not really.” She lo
oked down at her puffy foot. “I can put weight on my heel, and with the crutches it’s not too bad. Besides, I’ve got nothing planned for tomorrow and can sit with my foot up the whole day. But for now—or rather in an hour or so—I feel the need to get up and be among healthy people.”

  “All right. Then, shall we have wine instead of martinis?”

  “Perfect. We can have the good stuff at the pub.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Tricia said, and rose from her chair. “I haven’t got much more than cheese and crackers as a snack.”

  “Fine with me. About now I’d eat my sore foot.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Tricia retreated to the kitchen, poured the wine, and assembled stuff to nibble on, including some olives and the last of her stash of grapes. She lifted the tray and took it into the living room, where she found Miss Marple had taken up residence on Angelica’s lap and was purring happily. Of course, that didn’t last long, because the cat knew that happy hour always meant a treat for her, too.

  Once everyone had been taken care of, Tricia flopped down in her easy chair and kicked off her shoes once again.

  “What shall we drink to?” Angelica asked.

  “A normal day. I haven’t had one in I don’t know how long.”

  Angelica raised her glass. “To a normal day.”

  They drank and then Tricia stifled a yawn. She wasn’t sure she was up for what passed as an evening on the town, but a promise was a promise. And yet she had a feeling that, apart from her weekly lunch with Ginny the next day, she wasn’t going to have an ordinary Thursday. She needed to make time to speak with Grant Baker.

  She had a lot of hard questions for him to answer.

  TWENTY-THREE

  As the sisters slowly walked south on the east side of Main Street, Tricia wondered if the chill in the air would bring them their first frost of the season by morning. Then again, it was still rather early for that. But a cold wind from Canada could change everything in a heartbeat.

  Traffic was almost nonexistent, and they crossed the street in front of the Dog-Eared Page, where they could already hear cheerful Celtic music issuing from within. Tricia held the door open for Angelica to enter, but her sister stopped abruptly and Tricia had to stand in the ensuing draft while Angelica took in the space.

  “Noise! People! I love it!” she declared.

  “Yeah, well, they’ll be cursing you if you don’t move and let me close this door.”

  Angelica threw a sour look over her shoulder and then hobbled over to the first empty bistro table. She sat down, handed Tricia the crutches, and eased her sore foot onto the closest chair.

  “Ah, that’s better.”

  Tricia set the crutches against the wall, then removed her coat and hung it on the back of the adjacent chair. “Take off your jacket and get settled while I get us a couple of drinks at the bar.”

  “Bring a bowl of chips back with you, too, please.”

  “I’ve only got two hands.”

  Angelica pouted.

  “Oh, all right!”

  As Tricia approached the bar, she noticed a number of acquaintances from the Chamber of Commerce who’d also chosen to patronize the pub that evening—including its president. But Russ sat alone at a table in the rear of the pub, nursing a beer with his back to the crowd. It was him all right—and his Chamber constituents were doing a fine job of ignoring him.

  When she got to the bar, Tricia was surprised to find the manager making drinks instead of the regular bartender. “Hi, Shawn. Where’s Yoshi tonight?”

  “Hey, Tricia. She’s taking a break. We haven’t seen you since you got back from your visit to the land of the little people.” Shawn’s Irish brogue always made her smile.

  “I loved it. I’ve been busy, but I’m here now,” she quipped.

  “I hear you didn’t get much of a welcome back, either.”

  Tricia frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head, his expression somber. “I mean finding that homeless woman in your dumpster.”

  Tricia nodded. Everybody in the village seemed to know about that. “Did you ever meet Susan?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. One night the week before last, I caught her throwing her trash in one of our bins out back.” He grimaced. “Well, if you can call it trash. I call it crap—literally.”

  For a moment Tricia didn’t understand, and then she remembered the slop bucket in Susan’s car. When she and Angelica had scoped out the vehicle, it was empty, the bag inside unsoiled. Had Susan emptied it just before she was killed?

  “Did you catch her just the one time?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure she’d been there before. I told her in no uncertain terms not to come back, but I assume she’d been dumping her crap all over the village—probably in a different locale every night so that no one would catch on.”

  Pixie had also mentioned that Susan disposed of her . . . waste. Tricia assumed the woman put it in the cans that resided on the fringes of the municipal parking lot. Had there been complaints about Susan? Had she been warned not to sully the cans? As it was, they didn’t smell all that good on a hot day. And many people who walked their dogs along Main Street often deposited their droppings in the cans as well. It made sense that none of the business owners would want that kind of litter in their garbage totes or dumpsters—especially the establishments that served food, like the pub.

  Then she remembered that Nikki had practically crowed about turning Susan in to the police. Had she caught her dumping her waste in the Patisserie’s dumpster? The idea made Tricia shudder. Freegans often dug through trash looking for viable food. From personal experience, Tricia knew there were freegans living in the Stoneham area and the Patisserie threw out a lot of stale baked food.

  And what about the sanitary considerations? Diseases like hepatitis, E. coli, salmonella, cholera, and even polio are spread through feces. The thought made Tricia shudder. No wonder Shawn had run Susan off.

  “What can I get you and Angelica tonight?” he asked, nodding at Tricia’s sister across the way. Angelica smiled and waved. “The usual?”

  “Of course. And Angelica would like a bowl of chips, too, please.”

  “We’re out of crisps. Will pretzels do?”

  “The saltier, the better.”

  Shawn rummaged under the bar, came up with a bag of pretzel sticks, and poured them into a bowl before handing it to Tricia. “I’ll have one of the girls bring your drinks to the table.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s Angelica’s foot?” Shawn asked.

  “Getting better.”

  “Great. If I get a chance, I’ll try to stop by to say hello.”

  “She’d like that.”

  Tricia returned to the table and plunked the bowl down in front of her sister.

  “No chips?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll enjoy these anyway. Too bad we don’t have some peanut butter to dunk them in,” Angelica said, and helped herself to several while Tricia seated herself. Peanut butter with a martini? No. Just no.

  Tricia looked toward the bar, where Shawn was already in deep conversation with another patron. “I just had a short but very interesting conversation with Shawn.”

  “About what?”

  “First, let me ask you a question. Is it illegal to dump your garbage in a business’s dumpster?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica shrugged. “I believe it is in some states, but more than that, it’s just not nice. Why do you ask?”

  “Because apparently Susan was dumping her trash—and her bodily waste—in commercial dumpsters across the village.”

  Angelica wrinkled her nose. “Eeuuww! Is that what Shawn said?”

  Tricia took a couple of pretzels and nodded. “He said he caught her red-handed. I’m just
wondering if that was enough to get her killed.”

  “By Shawn?” Angelica asked, appalled.

  “Of course not. But what if someone else caught her doing it—and maybe not for the first time?”

  Angelica shook her head. “That would seem like one heck of an overreaction. And who in Stoneham would do such a thing? Wouldn’t it have just been better to call the cops or simply scare her away?”

  “What if they’d tried both things and she came back anyway?”

  “But why would someone drag her body all the way to your dumpster?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t have far to go. Or if the killer didn’t know who she was, he—or she—might have just done the deed and then stuffed her body behind Haven’t Got a Clue to deflect detection.”

  Angelica shook her head. “I don’t see that happening. It’s too simple.”

  “And what if it was just that simple?”

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Talk to some of the other business owners along Main Street.”

  “Most of the stores are unoccupied after six o’clock. It makes sense that Susan would dump her trash at times she wasn’t likely to get caught,” Tricia said.

  Angelica shrugged. “I guess that sounds logical. But many of the buildings have apartments. Maybe one of the tenants saw Susan or her car driving down the alley.”

  “I’m sure she would have done so in stealth mode—with her car lights off.”

  “But there’re streetlamps, and they’re bright enough that someone looking out a window would have seen her or her car.”

  Tricia was sure Marshall would have mentioned it if he’d seen Susan skulking around—that is, if he’d recognized her out of context.